


What Doesn't Kill You...

by helike



Series: Snape Appreciation Month 2017 [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Post-Hogwarts, Severus Snape-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-02 21:21:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10952961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helike/pseuds/helike
Summary: Contrary to popular belief, short after he graduated from Hogwarts, Severus Snape did try to publish the corrections he had made to his Potions textbook.





	What Doesn't Kill You...

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: post Hogwarts years

The first publisher just took one look at him. His glance swept over Severus’ second-hand and rather worn out robes, and his lips curled into something akin to a snarl.

“Do you have… a proposal perhaps?” the publisher drawled.

Severus startled. “A proposal? I— The manuscript—“

There was no understanding on the publisher’s side.

Severus was shown the door much faster than a cauldron could blow up due to a volatile reaction between wrongly composed ingredients.

 

* * *

 

Next time Severus came prepared.

There was a proposal, neatly drawn up, with the highlights of the improvements made and the suggested target recipients of the book.

This publisher didn’t even take a look at him at first, but focused on the proposal. She pushed the manuscript away and didn’t spare it any glance.

“Well…” She stared at him, her eyes unblinking behind her glasses and her lips tightly pressed. “You claim that… this book could be used a textbook. You do realise we already have one, written by a very talented author, I may add.”

“Yes,” he said, trying to ignore butterflies in his stomach. “But the recipes may be improved! I—”

“Stop.” She raised her hand, as if trying to silence him, and lifted her eyebrow. “Are you trying to tell me that _you_ found a way to improve something created by Libatius Borage, one of the world’s most famous potioneers?”

“Yes…” he replied and shifted in the chair, feeling something cold form in his chest.

“Mr…” she took a quick glance at the proposal. “Mr Snape, may I ask what have you already published? Some… paper perhaps? I’m afraid that I’m rather unfamiliar with your name.”

He gulped. Quite loudly.

“Nothing yet.”

She pressed her lips tightly. “I see.”

So did he.

The proposal was rejected.

 

* * *

 

Third time was supposed to be a charm.

This publisher seemed interested. And friendly. In that grandfatherly way.

“Snape… Snape…” He stroke his long beard. “I don’t really recognise the name. Neither would our readers, I’m afraid.”

The man seemed to be lost in his thoughts for a short while.

Severus, despite himself, dared to hope.

The man looked at him; his eyes seemed to bore through Severus.

“Perhaps you have some connections that we could use?” The man continued to stroke his beard. “Are you related to any of the Pureblood families?”

Something cold slithered down Severus’ spine. He didn’t suppose it would make him any good to mention that his mother was a Prince who had married a Muggle.”

“Not really,” Severus muttered.

The hand stopped on the beard and the man straightened. A strange gleam appeared in his eyes.

“Such a pity, really,” the man replied. “I’m really sorry, but there is nothing I can do about this now.”

He didn’t look sorry at all in. In Severus’ opinion at least.

And it didn’t seem that the third time was a charm after all.

 

* * *

 

The fourth publisher also seemed promising. Until she asked about funding.

“F… Funding?”

“Yes, funding.” She pouted her lips. “Our books are investments. This…” She pointed at his manuscript. “Is too risky. So you have to pay first, then we can consider publishing it. It’s like a collateral, really. Well, what is your funding?”

Severus shifted in his seat. His hands trembled.

“I have none,” he said.

She showed him the door.

 

* * *

 

At some point he lost the count of rejections.

At some point he started to hate the manuscript. Then the publishers. Then himself.

At some point he even considered burning this most damned thing, which clearly only brought trouble and misery.

He didn’t.

He packed it into old newspapers, put into a box and pushed under his bed.

Perhaps, in the future, everything would change.

Perhaps, they would publish it one day.

After he made the name for himself.

He would find the way.


End file.
